


Godhunter

by EmbryonicHarmonic



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Body Horror, Crossover, Horror, Hunter!Aymeric, M/M, Sickness, behold a pale blood sky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 13:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmbryonicHarmonic/pseuds/EmbryonicHarmonic
Summary: Aymeric finds himself afflicted with a strange illness. When he awakens, Ishgard is in a state of disease and decay. His eyes must be opened, to see the world as it truly is.





	1. Longing Sickness

“Are you feeling alright?”

Aymeric glanced up at the question, having been staring at the same set of papers for probably the past ten minutes. The day had seemed to have stretched far too long and far too cold, or maybe it was something in the air. He did feel unusually cold in his office. But he really felt fine otherwise. Surely. 

“I’m fine. Why?” He eyed Lucia with a little bit of confusion. He certainly felt fine, save for the extra chills. It didn’t feel like a fever of all things. 

She did not look convinced of this. 

“You look pale. Perhaps you should get up and move a little? You’ve been motionless for the past hour.” There was less of a hint to her voice and more of a heavy suggestion, and Aymeric was not stupid enough to think that she would not actually lift him out of his chair and make him walk a little. 

But he did suppose she was right. 

He had been sitting a while, and maybe walking around more would get him to feel less cold, to warm up. Ishgard was cold on the best of days, but today it felt like there was an added draft or chill in the air. The Lord Commander set the paper down, rubbing his eyes as he sat back. His joints felt stiff and sore, and maybe it was best if he actually did more than just pace around his office. Food was starting to sound like a fine idea.

“A walk to clear my head, and something to eat then.” Aymeric said as he stood, feeling various things popping in his back. Maybe he was getting old, though Fury forbid he ever voiced that out loud, Lucia would have a fit. 

Unfortunately walking did not seem to do anything to properly wake him up. He only felt worse. Colder. His head starting to feel like it was swimming, and he put his hand on one wall to steady himself. Maybe he could simply see a doctor and let this pass. But the idea of finding a spare bunk and sleeping for a few bells was starting to sound like a fine idea. Surely Lucia would understand if he needed to rest, right? 

A chill slowly crept through him, and he shuddered. He hardly felt good, and deeply wanted to sleep under his desk. Or in his own bed, not that he ever went home these days. There was always something to do, too much of it. 

Surely it was a simple cold, it would pass. 

“Lucia.” 

He clung to the wall when he made it back to his office, now feeling proper sick. He had been sick before, but perhaps it was the stress, the pressure of being Lord Commander that was making this feel worse. There was so much more he had to do. 

Lucia was more than alarmed, moving over quickly to support him. 

“I’m helping you home, and finding a doctor.” She was not going to take ‘no’ for an answer, and Aymeric wasn’t entirely sure he had the strength in him to argue over it. He had felt fine earlier in the day, but now it all seemed to be hitting him at once. 

“I can make it home fine.” He insisted, pushing away. He tried to make it to his desk, trying to grab a few things to look over, and ended up feeling out of breath and dizzy. 

He wanted to sleep, and maybe he could just stay here. 

“Maybe I should just grab a cot and sleep for a little while.” He murmured. 

Lucia did not look particularly pleased, but she at least could help with that. She pulled his arm over her shoulder, and supported him as they made their way to the barracks proper. The first cot became his bed, and he sank down onto it, ignoring Lucia’s attempts to get him to at least take off his coat, or boots. He just wanted to sleep for a little while. 

It was a few hours before he woke up, feeling significantly better. Still pale, apparently, but he felt alright. 

Aymeric, for once listening to his better judgment, decided it was perhaps best to go home for the night. He insisted that he was not going to die on the way, though it took an act of the Fury herself to actually leave without Lucia just following after him. 

It was a quiet night as he left the Congregation, making his way from Foundation up towards the pillars. 

Something about the world seemed different. He didn’t know what, but something didn’t feel right. His eyes drifted towards the towering spires of the cathedral, the Vault looming over him. He tried to ignore it, forcing his gaze to the world ahead of him. He stumbled a little, things suddenly spinning with such a simple motion. He felt terrible suddenly, a nausea rolling over him. No, he could be sick when he got to the safety of his own home. He couldn’t afford to actually be sick, he was the Lord Commander! He needed to be properly focused! Just some hot tea and rest and he would be fine.

He’d be fine.

He made it to the proper street when the world spun again. Something hissed in his ear, and he wobbled when he tried to steady himself. He tried to turn towards the voice, the whisper he heard, but the world outright whirled as he lost his balance and fell into the blackness.


	2. Blood Ministrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange sort of therapy is given to Aymeric, from the secretive and elite Ishgardian scholars at Byrgenwerth. And Aymeric receives a draconic visitor.

“...-meric!”

“...him insi…” 

“..fever… bri…”

Consciousness flashed briefly. In and out. Aymeric could hear words, brief flickers of light and then he was swallowed once more. 

“...ealing…” 

The darkness engulfed him. 

In the throes of fever, he could hear someone. A voice he had never heard before. A voice that sounded wrong. It called to him, softly. It called his name, and he felt as though he should find it. Should reach for it. This presence, this call as soft as the moonlight, was reaching for him. He could find peace in it, perhaps. Drifting in this nothingness, in the blackness feeling like he was freezing. The fever wracked him, he could not break himself free. 

He stared up at the moonlit sky, under the pale light. Something was holding him, he couldn’t move. Panicked, he looked down, finding thick iron chains around his limbs, keeping him rooted in place. 

It called to him again, and he looked up at the sky. 

The moon reached him. A great light struck him, and he shuddered. The chains binding him shattered one by one. The light wrapped around him, and he never felt so… safe. So calm. 

It called to him. 

To forgive his sins. 

Was this the light of Halone, of the Fury? Was she speaking to him? 

“...Byrgenw… healing…” 

“...lood…” 

He wasn’t sure if he saw the world again, if he was waking up, but Aymeric was soon swallowed by the darkness once again. 

He wasn’t sure when he woke up, but the world was bitterly cold. 

And dark. 

Aymeric let out a soft groaned, slowly sitting up. He was in his own home, which was a small comfort. There was a bandage on the crook of his arm, and a glass bottle, overturned in a metal rack with a rubber tube attached, next to his bed. There were spots of red on the sheets. He didn’t feel feverish anymore, which he supposed was a good idea. He felt so sore still, unsure if it was the usual aches and pains of just being sick. And he was sick. He felt sick. 

“Lay back down, Aymeric.” 

His mother was at the doorway, and he found himself simply lowering himself back against the pillows. He could almost smell the bowl of soup she brought over, though he wasn’t entirely sure that he could feed himself as easily. His body felt weak, and he managed to reach for a handkerchief so he could blow his nose. There were flecks of red in the rather gross-colored snot. He really did not wish to think about it. His mother helped him back up, bracing the pillows behind him and tucking the blankets around him again. 

“How long have I been asleep?” He asked, the tray being placed over his lap so he could slowly eat. 

He remembered pretending to be sick in his youth, in an attempt to get his mother to cook this very soup for him. 

“A few days. You collapsed on the street, and you were brought here. Lucia carried you the entire way. That Au Ra friend of yours had to be sent for healers, and _they_ had to send for the proper doctors at Byrgenwerth.” His mother sat by his bedside, moving the metal pole and glass vial. 

“Byrgenwerth? It was that severe?”

Aymeric, admittedly, knew very little of the Byrgenwerth doctors. Their secrets were very closely guarded, and usually they only stirred from their high towers on the far side of Ishgard for the holiest of duties, and the most secretive. To think they had been called for him… it was somewhat overwhelming. Surely he was not that important, he was no Knight of the Heaven’s Ward. Or perhaps his sickness had been so severe that none of the proper healers could have handled something like this. And he was fairly certain that he did not wish to think too hard on such a prospect. 

His mother, however, nodded. She explained that he had been as white as a sheet, and barely breathing. His body was burning up, and they could not bring his fever down quick enough. There was a real fear of losing him. 

The Au Ra, Artorias Gwayr, friend of Haurchefant and Alphinaud, had been quick enough to retrieve the healers, and had sprinted across the city to the Byrgenwerth towers. Apparently he had been more than worried, terrified even. Aymeric was relieved, and slightly embarrassed. He would have to thank the man as soon as he was able. He had to get better first, there were probably mountains of work waiting for him back at the Congregation, not that he felt particularly eager to do so. He wanted to recover, or do his best. 

However, hearing what the doctors had done made him pause. 

They had performed what they termed ‘blood ministrations’, and though his mother was not entirely sure what they were, it involved drawing his blood, and a sort of infusion of new blood into him. 

“They had a specific term for you. ‘Pale blood’ I think it was…” His mother struggled to recall the term, thought Aymeric wasn’t entirely sure he liked the sound of it. 

He had never heard it before. 

“Is Artorias here still? I need to thank him.” Aymeric insisted, finishing the soup. 

He felt warmer. A little more alive. A little more human. 

“He should be downstairs, I will send him up.” His mother took the tray, smiling softly at him. “I’ll come back to check on you after you two have had time to talk.” 

Aymeric wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be seen like this, not that he had much of a choice. He didn’t have time to make himself presentable, though he did manage to run his fingers through his hair so he looked less like he had indeed been sleeping for a few days. That was likely for the best, he hoped. He wanted to at least pretend to be put-together, not looking like he had been so ill they needed to call the highest-ranking physicians and apothecaries in Ishgard. 

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs only made his fingers curl into the sheets. What if he did look like an absolute mess? How utterly undignified this would be, to be seen in such a state.

“Aymeric?” 

And there he was, tall, pale as moonlight with horns and scales as black as night. Aymeric would allow himself to privately wax poetic, describing such a dragon of a man in beautiful terms. Sure, to think of him as such was likely heresy, but it was hard not to. Moonlight incarnate, if that were a proper way to describe someone. Still, Aymeric owed him a lot right now. He was alive because of this man.  
Artorias smiled when he finally entered, feeling relieved. 

“Hey there, handsome.” 

Aymeric felt the heat rise up to his ears, turning bright red at the overly-familiar greeting. Something that he would hardly consider proper. Especially not in this sort of situation. It didn’t stop the Auri man from sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling not unlike the cat who caught the canary. 

“How are you feeling?” His tail flicked idly as his hand found Aymeric’s. 

Was it getting hotter? Did his fever return? 

“I… Th-this is highly improper-” Aymeric stumbled through his thoughts. Holding _hands_ without being married? Absolutely scandalous. If anyone found out, he would likely be accused of being some harlot! 

Artorias did not seem to care. 

“Well, when else would I get to express myself so freely? You’ve always been so uptight and closed off.” 

Artorias felt himself glowing with how red his face was. He wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. He could hardly let himself be anything less than this bastion of purity, until such times as he found a suitable partner, but… 

...but there was something exciting about this. 

“I- well, I-- I should thank you. My mother told me that you were the one to help, to make a run to the Byrgenwerth scholars so they could help me.” Aymeric tried to be diplomatic, but some part of him couldn’t. He slowly closed his fingers around Artorias’. 

“I did what I could. Not that it wasn’t… unusual. But I’m glad you’re safe, and on the mend.” 

“I owe y---” 

He was cut off by lips meeting his own, and Aymeric felt a heat spread through his entire body. His heart suddenly seemed to hammer in his chest, and he didn’t really know how to respond. Kiss back? Lean in? Pull away? 

Fortunately, Artorias seemed to take pity on him. 

“Consider it all paid in full, now get some rest.” Artorias said with a smile.   
Aymeric could find no fault in his words. Maybe this was scandalous, but some part of him truly liked it. Some part of this was exciting and… very liberating. 

Artorias stayed for a little while longer, and Aymeric would never speak a word of their encounter. Not to anyone. Not ever. 

He fell asleep, content, and not alone.


	3. Red Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sickness has passed, the hunt has come.

It was a blur. 

He couldn’t stop coughing, and the copper rose in the back of his throat, spit up over the sheets and his clothes. 

Sickly, red fluid. 

“...call th…”

“...be with… soon… -old on for me…” 

He heard Artorias’ voice through the hazy vision and the hanging fog, over the coughing and shuddering, his body racked with what he couldn’t contain. The sickness, whatever it was, was destroying him. He saw blurry shapes, vague mockeries of the people he knew. Of people he cared for. 

The darkness took him. 

And the darkness took him again. 

When consciousness finally returned, the room was bathed in the orange-red of the dying light of day. There were empty vials of what he could only assume had once been blood on the nightstand, and a new bandage in each arm. Whatever had happened, he could not remember. The sickness had taken him and despite how he felt as close to normal as he could now, something felt very wrong. He wasn’t entirely sure what was, but the utter silence in the manor was only making his stomach twist. Nausea rolled over him, and he forced himself up and then out of bed. 

Clothes. He needed clothes. Something to wear.

Aymeric was certain he did not have the proper dexterity in his fingers to handle his heavy, regal armor and attire of a Lord Commander, surely someone would forgive him for something of the sort. He turned after he had managed to put on some clothes, a shirt, breeches, boots, and a coat. It was then that he noticed a note tacked to his door, and dread rolled over him. 

_Aymeric,_

_Stay inside. Something is wrong. I’m going to go out and find somewhere safe. I’ll come back for you soon. _

_I love you._

_Artorias_

He felt the heat briefly rise and then vanish from his face, and he tucked the letter in his pocket. Something safe, something to protect him against whatever was out there. If something was wrong, he had to know. He had to organize the Temple Knights and protect the city. 

The manor was empty. He couldn’t find head nor hair of anyone. No servants. Not even his mother. 

Aymeric stepped out into the red-tinted streets of Ishgard, feeling nausea roll in his throat. It smelled like something rotting. Something terrible. Not quite blood but not quite infection. Something… well, he had thought rotting and that was the only real way he could describe such a thing. It felt… monstrous. Nightmarish. He went back inside, foregoing his lighter clothes to force himself into his proper, Lord Commander garb. Something to be comforting, to keep him somewhat properly armed. Or protected. 

Naegling was in his hand, and he ventured out into the world once again.

The smell was still overwhelming, and Aymeric felt the world feel slightly warmer as he made his way through empty streets. Suspiciously empty streets, that is. There were no guards, no people, no--

Apparently he spoke too soon. 

As he made his way from the Pillars, he saw a person. A body he did not recognize. The limbs were too long, and their clothes were splattered with something. And they were not alone. Aymeric felt his stomach twist into knots, and he tightened his grip on his sword. 

“Sir! Please, clear the streets. The Temple Knights will be--”

The group - four or five - all turned to him. Stalked towards him. And without heeding, they attacked. 

Aymeric froze.

He froze right up until a hammer cracked against his body, and he was struck to the stone. The world spun, and everything was forgotten. Everything he was supposed to know about combat disappeared. These were Ishgardians. They were wrong, they were…

Something struck his head, and the world went completely black.


	4. Pale Blood (Dream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric awakens in the Hunter's Dream.

It was… warm… when Aymeric stirred.

It wasn’t Ishgard. It couldn’t have been Ishgard. There was no warmth there. There was no greenery. 

Aymeric slowly opened his eyes, finding himself lying on cool stone among a lush, green garden. Or graveyard. The world wasn’t spinning. The world wasn’t hurting. He slowly pushed himself upright, and then to his feet. There were graves, and he saw an old fountain up the way. But before him looked to be an old building, the architecture did not even seem to be part of Ishgard.

Something caught his eye as he slowly walked up towards it, and he turned his eyes to what he had initially thought was a body lying among the brambles. Upon closer inspection, it looked to be just a doll, wearing clothes that he was sure did not fit Ishgardian attire. Unmoving, perhaps it was broken. Perhaps it just… well, it wasn’t the weirdest thing he had seen at the moment. He wasn’t even in Ishgard, and he wasn’t even sure how he had gotten here. His head wasn’t throbbing, he didn’t seem to be in pain, he wasn’t bleeding. 

But the skies above him were dark, clouded, and it seemed to be a near-eternal night. 

Aymeric continued up the walk, towards the building. Up the steps, into what looked to be a workshop. Or a library, if the number of books strewn about was any indication. There was an elderly man in a wheelchair, a hyur if Aymeric was guessing, and he turned to the very confused Lord Commander. 

“Ah… the night has come again, hasn’t it?” The old man slowly turned his wheelchair, and Aymeric could not help but feel that there was something very familiar to him. As if he knew this man. Something just felt like he knew this all.

“Excuse me, sir, what is going on? I remember being struck, being sick…” Aymeric had so many questions.

The old man folded his hands, looking at Aymeric with the same piercing sort of gaze a predator had. It did not fill Aymeric with any sort of confidence. 

“I see now. You, a paleblood. Rare in Ishgard these days, but fortuitous for us in the night of the Hunt.” He wheeled away, over to a bench that had various fine tools strewn about it. 

Artorias was very confused, and he found himself growing anxious. He had more questions and not enough answers. What was this place, what was a Hunt? What was a paleblood? Why was he one? 

“What are you talking about?” 

The old man chuckled, turning away.

“You, Lord Commander, and the next in a long line of Hunters, for a Hunt needs Hunters. A sickness is sweeping through Ishgard tonight, men are turned to beasts, monsters, and they must be put down. I am too old to join this night.” The old man raised his hands, and Aymeric saw his fingers shaking with effort as he fiddled with something.

Aymeric found himself with more questions than answers, but something in his chest made him shudder. He felt a pulling, that he had to go out and fight. That this man was right, and he had to go restore Ishgard. To undo whatever this sickness was. And what if he succeeded? He was still murdering Ishgardian citizens! Were the Heaven’s Ward functioning as Hunters as well? Were they going to be aiding him or were they going to be holed up with the archbishop, safe from this sort of terrible plague? 

And what was he supposed to do? 

Well, he had no choice, did he? Something told him that he was going to have to fight, over and over. It was his duty now, to protect Ishgard. No, it was always his duty. He needed to do this. 

The old man turned back, a strange weapon in his hand. It looked like a saw attached to a pole, and Aymeric found himself more confused than before. 

“A Hunter needs a weapon. And proper attire. The lanterns, there will be messengers, that is how you may return here. Oh, and where are my manners… I am Gherman, and this is the Hunter’s Dream.”

Aymeric took the strange weapon in one hand, finding it far lighter than he thought it would be. It did not seem to function anything like a sword. He stepped back, taking a few practice swings, though it was incredibly awkward. Unlike Naegling. Completely unlike what he knew. He wanted to ask so many more questions. 

“Ah, one more thing, Your clothes.”

“I’m sorry?”

Gherman motioned, and he turned to see small creatures, pale and monstrous, crawling from the floor and holding up neatly folded clothing. 

“You need something far easier to move in than your Ishgardian attire.”


	5. Lucia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to get used to being a Hunter, Aymeric finds Lucia.

To see Ishgard under a red sunset was… unsettling. 

Normally the skies were just cold, clouded. Even sunsets were not so sinister-looking. Aymeric found it more than unpleasant, stepping back onto the streets. He had been certain he died, did he not? But no, he had woken in that strange place, that odd dream What was he even supposed to do, aside from hunt? And what of those he was supposed to save? He had too many questions, and Gherman had not given him enough answers. 

Or… much of any answer.

The new attire was much easier to move in, but he felt the cold through him much quicker. The more he moved, the more confident he felt at least. Aymeric made his way up the cobbles towards the Congregation. He had to find a way to properly organize the Knights, and to find Lucia. And his mother. Estinien. The lords. Artorias. 

By the Fury, he hoped they were safe. 

The saw, the cleaver he had in-hand, cut quick and deep through the crazed citizens he came across. Their bodies were twisted and elongated, their mouths screaming about beasts, about purity. Aymeric took no pleasure in cutting them down, soaking himself in blood. It made his stomach turn, and he felt absolute shame the few times he had to put his hand over his mouth to keep from vomiting. 

Blood on his face was even worse. He couldn’t wipe it away. He would never be able to forget seeing the twisted bones and torn bodies that were his doing. _His._ He was slaughtering innocent civilians, ones who had been caught up in such a terrible night. A horrible, nightmarish event that he had no idea even existed. There had never been any sort of record of this, nor training. Though he worried, and hoped, that this was not something that had been hidden by the Archbishop. He did not need to think there were darker secrets being kept here, beneath Ishgard. 

Speaking of… where was the Heaven’s Ward? 

The thought idly passed his mind as he turned towards the Congregation, seeing the building towering as he moved up the streets. Something started to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

Aymeric stopped in his tracks.

The doors of the Congregation were broken, and there was blood on the stone. 

Any calm, rational demeanor he had was lost, and he sprinted up the cobbles towards the Congregation, and he couldn’t stop himself from calling out for someone, anyone. There had to be someone still alive in there. There had to!

“Lucia!”

There were bodies strewn around the room, and a loud roar. 

A great beast loomed, turning towards him. It almost looked like a large dog, almost. A great, horrible beast, with blonde fur. Armor - Lucia’s armor - fell from it as it rose, as if it had been wearing her armor. As if it was her. Great horns curled from its head,three eyes stared at him, and it stalked towards him, roaring in an unholy, monstrous and deafening manner. 

Aymeric felt a surge of horrible emotions. Fear. Panic. _Panic._ Panic panic panic panicpanicpanicpanicpanicpani-

Pain.

When his mind returned to him, Aymeric felt his body moving without his own say-so. The beast that was once Lucia was attacking him, and his footwork felt alien. He was supposed to be a frontline commander, someone who held his ground! And here he was, jumping and darting around wild swings of claws the size of his head. Not standing his ground. Not some grand pride or joy of Ishgard. His movements didn’t even feel like his own, darting in and out, around each strike. 

The serrated blade sliced through flesh and bone. 

Blood soaked him, and his clothing. 

He kept attacking. He kept fighting. Even when there was so much blood he couldn’t smell anything else. 

And it was… intoxicating. 

Aymeric felt his fear and his excitement building. He was not sure which was stronger, but he wanted more. He wanted to bathe in red. This beast - Lucia? No not Lucia just a beast - needed to be put down, and he was going to see this thing put _DOWN._

The beast roared, grabbing at him. He responded by ripping through its arm, slicing it to pieces. Flesh tore, bone shattered. He did not stop. There was no pacing, no time for him to do anything but fight. There would only be one single winner and it was not going to be this beast. Even if its screams sounded like cries for mercy. Even if it seemed as if it wanted to beg him to put it - her - down. He had to. He had to put them down. All of them. Beasts couldn’t be allowed to live he had to--

But then the beast wasn’t moving. 

But then he was still moving, tearing at the corpse until his senses seemed to return to him, and he sucked in a sharp breath. 

Aymeric staggered back, until he hit the wall of the Forgotten Knight and sobriety hit him like a hammer. That was Lucia. He killed her. He killed her. He didn’t even try to search for a solution, a cure, any way to reverse such a terrible thing. She had just attacked, therefor he was defending himself right? She wasn’t herself, she wasn’t begging to be put out of her misery it was all in his head, it had to be. He was a Hunter and he needed to save Ishgard from this terrible plague. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault, it had all been in self defence it--

“It’s not my fault… it’s not my fault…” 

He wasn’t even sure he had been speaking, not until it all finally hit his ears. 

Was this what was happening to Ishgard? What if there was no one left? Was he going to have to kill all of them? 

Aymeric sank to his knees, shaking. 

“I can’t… I can’t do this. I can’t do… I can’t kill them. I can’t do this… I’ve taken too many lives and…” His voice trembled, and he brought one hand to his face before he recoiled, smearing blood on his formerly pristine skin.

He wanted to run, but he couldn’t make his legs move. 

And it was getting colder, as the night in Ishgard had come.


	6. At the Gates of Byrgenwerth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric keeps going. Perhaps the hunt is changing him, or perhaps he is going mad.

The night had fallen.

The moon was large, looming over him. Over Ishgard. 

Aymeric had forced himself to move, his knees shaking with every step as he walked back through the streets he had cleared out. The bodies were piled on the stone, and he walked. 

He had to find Artorias. He had to find his mother. Haurchefant. Estinien. They had to be out here somewhere. He needed someone. He wanted - no, needed - someone to just hold his hand and tell him it was okay. He needed to be okay. He was absolutely soaked in blood, and it was all he could smell. 

_That sweet…. scent…_

He stopped, clapping his hand over his mouth to keep from vomiting. His own thoughts betrayed him. His own feelings. Blood was vile. He couldn’t get clean enough. No matter how many baths he took, he was certain he would never feel clean enough. He felt so terrible. His body shook, and he slumped against the side of a building. Aymeric shut his eyes tightly, trying to shut the thoughts out. No blood. No. No more. No more feelings like this, no. Blood wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t supposed to be good. It was supposed to be horrible. 

The distant sound of a snarling beast made him jolt upright. His eyes were large, and he gripped the cleaver in hand. He needed to do this, to fight. 

Aymeric forced himself upright. He had to move, and he would. 

His footsteps echoed across the stones, picking up to a run. A hunt. There was a beast, and he needed to hunt. There was a _beast_ and he needed to _hunt_. There were no compromises. He had to do this. The night had to end and the hunt had to cease. And he would burn those beasts to nothing. 

He came up the long street, finding the distant spires of Byrgenwerth ahead of him. And between him and answers was the familiar white and blue of Ser Charibert. 

He had to hunt. 

“Ser Charibert!” Aymeric called. He hoped, he deeply hoped that there would be some humanity in him.

But secretly, he felt his own thoughts betray him. The Ward was corrupt, and they needed to burn.

Charibert’s head snapped in Aymeric’s direction, blood staining his face. His body started to twitch, twisting and distorting. 

Like Lucia. 

A cleric beast. 

This time, Aymeric did not hesitate. He rushed forwards on quickened feet, the cleaver biting into the twisting, changing flesh. Blood. He needed to see Charibert bleed. He needed to see him be torn asunder. And with the former man twisting into a beast, into a monster, Aymeric was going to get his wish. This was a mercy killing, and one he found himself slowly taking more and more pleasure in, when it shouldn’t. He felt himself shudder, hissing unhappily for it. But there was more blood. There was more blood. He needed…

Charibert’s twisted body was in shreds at his feet. He wasn’t even sure when that happened, or how long he had stayed standing there. 

He looked at the blood on his hand, and brought it to his face. Towards his mouth.

Before he could lick it - _taste it_ \- there was a loud, deep sound from the gates. Byrgenwerth was opening. 

Aymeric turned, his hand dropping to his side. He moved forwards. Towards the gates. 

The cleaver in his hand made a creaking sound, and the blade separated from the hilt. He stared as it clattered to the stone. He needed to find something new, quickly. He had to. There had to be something. 

A guiding moonlight. 

He felt fatigue slowly eating at him. 

Byrgenwerth was close, and when he reached the gates, he slumped to his knees. He needed to just rest for a little bit. 

Aymeric dragged himself against a corner, and closed his eyes.


	7. Pale Blood (Guiding Moonlight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric is drawn into another Nightmare, where a sword finds its way to him.

When Aymeric opened his eyes, he smelled death. 

Whatever this was - another dream - he looked out upon a sealed chapel, and mountains of bodies. There was blood pooling at the bottom of the stairs, and he feared what he would find. 

Especially the low groan, and the sudden movement of a beast he could not even describe. 

A twisted face, not human, or maybe a horse of some sort. An impossible neck, an impossible set of legs and limbs, and a mouth upon the shoulder. He could see eyes on the inside, eyes and eyes, going down the throat. He felt transfixed, terrible and he could not stop staring. And yet he felt an urge in him. That he had to defeat this thing. That this was wrong. 

But the eyes turned to him, and he couldn’t move. 

He had no weapon. He could not do this. 

The beast roared, shaking him to his core, and leapt at him. 

Aymeric was struck into the wall, feeling something shatter. He scrambled to his feet, rushing out of the way of the next blow. He had to do something. Had to use something! This thing needed to be destroyed!

The beast narrowly missed its next blow, and Aymeric scrambled. Breathing was painful, shattered ribs digging into him. He had to keep moving, and ignore it. The pain needed to be ignored. He could be above it. 

He jabbed something - one of those blood vials - into his leg, and kept running. The beast slammed into the wall, and Aymeric saw something glinting among the bones and bile. He sprinted for it, grabbing up what ended up being a sword. It didn’t look like one of the trick weapons, but it was something he could use. 

Aymeric swung, catching the horrible beast in the face. Blood spilled all over him, and he advanced. Over and over, cleaving into this monstrous creature until something incredible happened. 

The blade glowed with a bright, moonlight-green glow, and both Hunter and beast seemed stunned. Aymeric had never seen anything like it. Paladin arms glowed, he knew that, and the massive blades of Dark Knights glowed with horrible power, but this was neither of them. Neither good, nor bad, but these were different times. These were just… 

“So…”

The beast spoke, and Aymeric felt his stomach twist as he recognized the voice. He had heard it somewhere. 

“You were always at my side… a guiding moonlight…” 

The beast reached for the sword, and Aymeric stabbed forwards. The blade cleaved through flesh and bone, and he swung, decapitating the horrible thing. The head crashed into a pile of bone and flesh, and gasped. Aymeric was panting, his eyes wide. The creature spoke. 

“So… you have come to end Ishgard’s nightmare… my holy moonlight has chosen you....”

The world shuddered, and Aymeric woke with a start. He was still in Ishgard, he was tucked into the corner. The world smelled like blood, and he didn’t feel like he had slept at all. But his hands was that strange blade, the aura fading. He didn’t know what he did, but apparently it was meant to be his own. 

He dragged himself up, trying to wipe his face. Byrgenwerth was here, and he pushed open the gates.


End file.
